8. Alina
8
Alina
“Good morning,” I say, trying to force aside the memories of Damian kissing me, touching me, marking my skin. I dreamed about him last night and woke up with my body thrumming like a live wire. Ugh. I don’t want to dream about him, don’t want to want him. Sucks that my body doesn’t care what my brain wants.
“I’ve ordered breakfast,” he says, his voice like smooth, dark silk. He’s wearing faded jeans, worn and soft, and a black t-shirt, the short sleeves pulled taut by the bulge of his biceps, the material stretching across his shoulders and chest, hanging a little loose at his waist. “It should be here any minute now.”
“Oh. Okay.” I wet my lips.
He’s silent for a moment, and then, “Let’s talk, Alina.”
“Talk? About what?” Nervousness swarms over me like I’ve accidentally stepped on a nest of ants.
Damian nods at the chair to his right. “Take a seat.”
I want to resist, but I do what he tells me to do, reminding myself of the plan to be nice and the fact that he has made it clear he expects to be obeyed. I sit, fighting to keep my expression calm.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks.
“Well enough. I was surprised to find my all my things here this morning. More surprised that their delivery didn’t wake me up.” I manage to keep any animosity out of my tone.
“It wasn’t me. After I arrived this morning, I sent Luca to collect your things.”
Damian must have been here very early this morning if Luca had enough time to collect and pack all my shit.
“He tells me you’ve met,” Damian says.
“Briefly last night. Enough to know he’s a Harry Potter fan.”
“Is he?”
I nod, and this is the moment that the front door opens and the six-foot-five Potterhead in question enters the condo, carrying a large paper bag and a tray with two coffees.
Damian’s attention doesn’t leave me for a moment. I feel the heat of his gaze on me as I watch Luca place the bag on the counter, pull out a bunch of white take-away containers and set them on the table along with the tray of coffees. He collects dishes from a cupboard and cutlery from a drawer.
“Bon Appetit,” he says dryly before leaving us alone again.
My stomach grumbles with hunger, since I literally don’t remember the last meal I had. Something quick and forgettable for lunch yesterday. I never ended up eating the crackers and chocolate last night.
Damian pushes a coffee toward me and takes one for himself. “Latte. Extra hot. Extra foam. One shot caramel syrup, one shot vanilla syrup. Cinnamon sprinkled on top,” he says.
He knows my weirdly specific coffee order. I find that unsettling.
I find everything about him unsettling.
“Eat something,” he tells me.
His commanding tone pisses me off. “No thank you. I’m not hungry.”
He opens the containers to reveal scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, fruit cocktail, French toast, and chocolate croissants, which are my favorites. He takes a plate and piles food onto it, everything except a croissant. I have the crazy thought that he got them for me. How would he know that I like them?
The same way he knows so many other things about me, including how I like my coffee.
I have a feeling that Damian Russo can find out anything and everything if he sets his mind to it.
I study him, trying to keep a neutral expression on my face. My stomach complains again and I’m sure he can hear it, even though he doesn’t say anything.
He starts to eat, still watching me with narrowed eyes.
Maybe one piece of bacon won’t matter…
I clasp my hands together on my lap and try to think about something else to say.
“Where’s my brother?” I ask.
He takes his time answering. “I don’t know.”
“Is he safe?”
“I don’t know.”
I swallow down a snarky comeback to that infuriating response. Or lack of response.
“Is this why you’re here?” I ask, nodding at his plate of food. “For breakfast?”
“Partially. The food at this restaurant is particularly good.”
My stomach chooses that moment to growl.
“I told you to eat. You refused,” he says, his tone silky, laced with steel. “I am not in the habit of repeating myself, but I am making an exception and telling you again, eat. It is not a request.”
I’m a man who expects to be obeyed.
I almost argue just for the sake of arguing, but fuck it. What am I trying to prove? I grab a plate and load it up.
I bite into the croissant. The buttery, flakey, chocolatey goodness almost makes me cry. He watches me chew and swallow, his eyes on my lips. I feel my cheeks heat. He grins like he won a prize. An open, honest grin that makes my heart twist in my chest. White teeth. Tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes. For an instant, he isn’t a deadly criminal, he’s just an insanely hot guy sharing a smile.
“We weren’t formally introduced last night,” he says. “Do you know who I am?”
“I know who you are,” I reply, and leave it at that. Or I try to, anyway.
“Okay, so tell me. Who am I?” His deep voice is casual as he takes a sip of his coffee.
“Damian Russo.”
“That’s my name. Yes. But who am I?”
Mafia prince. Criminal. Villain. Killer.
Of course, I don’t say this out loud.
“You’re someone who likes scrambled eggs,” I tell him. “And playing poker. Actually, no. Winning poker.”
“Both are correct.” Damian takes another bite of food, chews thoughtfully, and swallows. “Do you know who my father was?”
Did I imagine his voice catching on the word father ?
“I do,” I admit. “Salvatore Russo.”
“And who was he?”
“A man with a lot of power here in Vegas,” I reply carefully. “He owned a lot of property. Businesses. I think he had something to do with construction and waste management.” At least, that’s what the news claims. The news also mentioned money laundering, extortion, and sports betting. There were articles that mentioned his children—Leonardo, Damiano, Dante, Cassio, and Sabina—and the fact that his wife is deceased. But mostly, the news has focused on his murder.
I know what it feels like to lose both parents. I know the heartbreak, the pain, the feeling of being lost, adrift. My own grief wells as I whisper, “My condolences on your loss. And to your brothers. And your sister.”
Damian’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth and his gaze flicks to me. Something slides behind his dark eyes, a sliver of pain. A glimpse at a deeper well of grief. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced with something harder. He puts down the cutlery and places his hands on either side of his plate.
“Markus is the only family I have left,” I say into the silence. For this frozen second, we’re both orphans, our parents gone. We both know what it feels like to only have our siblings.
“What happened to your parents?” he asks.
I think he already knows what I’m going to say, but I answer anyway. “Both are dead. Car accident.” I shake my head. “I hate that word. Accident means unexpected and unintentional. It wasn’t an accident. It was a man who chose to drive drunk. Who chose to kill them.”
He leans forward, his gaze intent, holding mine. “And you would have liked to see him pay.”
“I…” I swallow, seconds ticking past. I’ve never admitted this before, not out loud. But something about Damian’s expression, something about the fact that he understands what it feels like makes me say, “Yes. He got off with a slap on the wrist even though he’d been caught driving drunk before, more than once. My parents’ lives should have been worth…more.”
Still he doesn’t look away. “Did you want to see him suffer? See him dead?”
There’s something about Damian’s expression, the intensity, the genuine understanding, that pulls the truth from me. I hesitate, then go all in. “Yes. I wanted to see him suffer. See him dead. I still do.” For the first time since Mom and Dad died, I say it out loud, because somehow, I feel like I can, like Damian Russo will understand. Like he won’t judge me. And how crazy is that? Why should I care if a criminal judges me?
“Sometimes, I imagine terrible things happening to him.” I roll my suddenly dry lips inward, swipe my tongue across them. Then I tell him the worst part. “Sometimes, I imagine that I do terrible things to him.”
“Payback,” he says with a small smile.
“Payback,” I whisper. I can’t believe I told him this. I’ve never said this to anyone, not even Markus.
“I understand,” he says.
I nod. He understands. He does. I have no doubt that he wants to do terrible things to the man who shot his father.
What does it say about me that I get it, that I don’t think he’s wrong?
He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. Long, strong fingers. The backs of his hands decorated with tattoos that trail up his arms and disappear beneath his t-shirt. He looks just as good in casual clothes as he did in a suit. I have the crazy urge to trace the lines of those tattoos with the tip of my finger.
“What about your boyfriend?” he asks.
That question breaks the gossamer thread that joined us.
“I don’t have a boyfriend. No pets. No dog, or cat, or even a goldfish. Just an older brother who’s in over his head with the wrong man and managed to drag me into the center of his problems without any warning.”
I literally bite my tongue to stop me from talking since my tone has become anything but amiable. But I’m angry. For a second, I forgot that this man is holding me in a luxurious prison. For a second, I actually liked him, trusted him with my secrets. And then he brought me crashing back to reality. So I’m angry at myself. At him. I can’t let myself forget who this man in front of me is. My jailor. The man who holds my brother’s safety—hell, my brother’s life—in his hands.
“Do you know how my father died?” Damian asks. “You would have seen it in the papers, in the news.”
I lick my suddenly dry lips. “He was shot.”
“Two bullets. Hollow-points. They’re designed to expand on impact, to do as much damage as possible. One got him here.” He leans toward me and rests his fingers on the swell of my left breast, over my heart. My breath locks in my throat. “And one here.” He taps the tip of his index finger on the center of my forehead. I shiver.
“I was as close to him then as I am to you right now,” he says, his gaze locked on mine. “I can still feel my father’s blood, his brains, on my hands.”
I feel the color drain from my face. “That…that’s truly horrifying. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t care who Damian is, I wouldn’t wish a traumatic experience like that on my worst enemy.
“That day I made a promise. To myself, to my brothers. My sister. I promised that I would find the shooter.”
And make him suffer , he doesn’t say. But I hear it anyway, and I understand.
“I think you can help me, Alina,” he says.
His words take me by surprise. “You think I can help you?”
He nods.
“How?” I ask.
He slides his phone across the table. I glance down at the screen, at the photo there, and for a second, I’m just confused. And then I’m wary.
“That’s your boyfriend,” Damian says. “Enzo Bianchi.”
He doesn’t pose this as a question.
It is a picture of Enzo. Not clear at all, quite blurry. Taken from a distance. But it’s definitely him.
“Not my boyfriend,” I correct, uneasily. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”
I can’t tell if he believes me or not.
“How long exactly?” Damian asks.
I tear my gaze away from the screen. My heart is pounding hard as a million memories of my abusive ex rise up in my mind. I push the phone away from me.
“I…I don’t know. A couple months?” I’m lying. I know exactly how long it’s been. The last time I saw Enzo was the first time I saw Damian Russo. The night Damian’s father was shot.
My eyes widen. “Wait. You think Enzo killed your father.”
He takes his phone back. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know. One day, he just wasn’t there anymore. He didn’t explain, he just disappeared.”
“You didn’t go looking for him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was glad he was gone.”
Damian sits with this for a moment. “I want to find him.”
“I’m sure you do. But I don’t know where he is.”
“I don’t fucking believe you.”
“That’s too bad, because it’s the truth.”
He hisses out an impatient sigh. “Who did Enzo work for?”
“I don’t know.” Another lie. I’d overheard snippets of conversations, enough to know Enzo unofficially—or maybe officially—worked for the Ivanovs. I’m not sure why I don’t just tell Damian the truth. But my sense of self-preservation is strong and so I hold back that bit of information in case I need it later.
He cocks his head, his expression one of impatience now. “How long were you together?”
“A couple of months. And we weren’t exactly together. He took me out sometimes.”
He reaches over and strokes the backs of his fingers along my right cheek. I fight the urge to lean into his touch. “He hit you.”
“How do you know—?” I remember the impulse I had to run to him that night, to seek protection from Enzo. I take a slow breath. “Yeah. He hit me.”
Damian’s expression has gone cold. “Often?”
I shake my head. “He hit the wall. Yelled a lot. Yanked me around by the arm. Left bruises. I was done. I met him one last time to tell him that. That’s the night he hit me…”
“You broke up with him before he disappeared.”
“Yes. And I haven’t heard from him since. For all I know, he’s dead.”
“What makes you say that, Alina? Did he do something that would get him killed?” His voice is low, his tone easy, the sort of tone that invites confessions.
I swallow and wrap my arms around myself. “It’s a figure of speech.”
“Who did he work for?”
“I don’t know,” I say again, louder this time. I’m not protecting Enzo. I’m protecting myself. And Markus. Information is power and I’m not going to give it away now in case I need it later. “But I do know that he did things. Bad things.”
“Bad things,” he repeats, a hard smile curving his lips. “Like what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Those are your favorite three words, aren’t they?” Damian stands up and comes toward me, pulling a chair next to me. It scrapes along the floor with the subtlety of nails on a chalkboard. He sits, so close I can smell the faint citrus and spice scent of his skin. “I need answers, Alina.”
“Here are your answers. I dated Enzo for a couple of months. He was an asshole. Sometimes, I didn’t see him for days. Once, I didn’t see or hear from him for a week. A couple of times, he was all scraped up when I saw him, his knuckles split. If I asked him any questions, he liked to yell at me or shake me until I shut the hell up. I learned pretty quickly not to ask any questions.”
Fury flashes in his dark eyes.
“When I find him, I’m going to fucking kill him,” he mutters, and then grasps hold of my chin to make me meet his gaze when I look away. “I’m going to make him suffer. Do you hear me?”
“Be my guest,” I snarl. “But I still don’t know where he is.”
He doesn’t let go of me. His hold is gentle, his skin warm. His attention moves briefly to my lips, then flicks back up to my eyes.
“He hit you that night at the casino.” Not a question, but I nod anyway.
“Because you ended it?”
“No.”
“Why, then?”
“Because I was talking to you,” I say. “Or, well, because you were talking to me.”
A frown creases his forehead. “I asked your name. You didn’t give it to me. That’s all it took?”
“No. I think it was the way you were looking at me.”
“How was I looking at you?”
“Like you wanted to fuck me.” I regret saying this the moment the words leave my mouth. “That’s what Enzo said, anyway.”
Damian’s mouth quirks. “I look at a lot of beautiful women like that. None of them walk away from me without even a glance. Only you, Alina Madsen.”
My full name on his lips makes me shiver. “I guess I’m different.”
“Yeah. You definitely are.”
He hasn’t let go of me yet. He’s close enough now that I can feel his breath, warm against my mouth. He traces his thumb along my bottom lip slowly, so slowly, and I realize that I’m not breathing at all anymore.
I part my lips.
His thumb slides in.
I close my eyes and suck and I’m rewarded with a low grunt. That sound weaves through my body to my nipples, to my pussy. I suck harder, wishing Damian would put a very different body part into my mouth, one that’s bigger, longer, thicker, harder.
His free hand sinks into my hair.
I pull back, his thumb sliding free of my lips with a soft pop. I open my eyes to find him watching me, his expression hard with lust. My pulse races, my breath coming in shallow pants.
He leans closer, his lips a breath from mine—
A buzzing sound interrupts, and Damian pulls back from me. I exhale a shuddery breath as he reaches for his phone and puts it to his ear, his gaze still locked on mine.
“What?”
I can hear someone on the other end of the call, but can’t make out the words.
“Fine,” Damian says. “I’ll stop there first.”
With that, he stands and pulls me to my feet. He takes my hand and presses it to the hard ridge of his cock, straining against the front of his jeans. Then he presses his mouth to mine in a hard kiss, one that hints at both need and frustration.
“I’ll be back later to continue this conversation,” he promises.
Or maybe it’s more of a warning than a promise.
He grabs the leather jacket draped over the back of one of the chairs and slips the phone into the pocket, already headed for the door before I can even think of a reply.